The DI is Cast
by Copgirl
Summary: The story takes place shortly after John and Mary Watson's wedding. 2nd episode/ 3rd season. Here there'll be spoilers, if you haven't watched it. DI Lestrade is abducted and tortured for information. My first story and I'm really excited pulishing it here. I'm not a native-speaker, and without my terrific Beta Jack63kids it wouldn't have been possible.
1. Chapter 1

The DI is Cast

1.

Gregory Lestrade woke with a start. Sitting up with almost the same speed his eyes had opened to complete darkness, was a foolish idea though. All he could do was turn sideways before he vomited violently. Eventually the retching subsided, and he fell back, only to end up hitting his already hurting head on concrete instead of landing on a pillow as expected.  
"What the fuck!" he swore, sitting up again. At least he didn't get sick again right away. He fingered the back of his head, wincing when his fingers encountered a bleeding wound and a slight swelling. _Shit__!_ He remained sitting, elbows on his knees, head bend low, finally feeling his brain kicking into gear.  
Lestrade took stock. He was cold. He sat on the concrete floor, wearing nothing but his boxers. His head hurt, and his stomach was churning. He had little idea where he was. Actually not even an idea when he was. He felt another wave of nausea sweep over him again, forcing his stomach to release the last ounce of whatever it still had housed, leaving him with a mouthful of bile.

Wrapping his arms around his shivering body, Lestrade tried to recall the last thing he remembered before waking up here. Wherever 'here' was.  
There had been a party at the Yard after they had finally hunted down the murderer of six women; of course, with the help of Sherlock Holmes. The self-proclaimed consulting detective had been absent, and the party itself had been a short one. They all had been exhausted, wanting nothing more than to go home, hug their families, take a hot shower and sleep for at least twelve hours.  
Sally had offered him a lift in her car but Lestrade had decided on walking. It wasn't far, and he was ashamed, didn't want her to see the house he had found a flat in after he finally had separated from his wife. He remembered he had waved goodbye, lit a cigarette, and that was it.  
When he felt fairly certain that he wouldn't throw up again Lestrade struggled to his feet. He heard a click, and the room was flooded with bright white light, forcing him to squeeze his eyes tightly shut. He heard rather than saw a door opening. Two men entered, grabbing his arms, and dragging him out.  
"Who are you?" Lestrade demanded. The man holding his right arm, used his free hand had to slap him firmly in the face.  
"Shut up!"  
His vision adjusted to the light while they walked him down a corridor into another room. A bathroom. Well, not really a bathroom. A room with a tiled floor and walls. He was shoved roughly into one corner.  
"Stay there," the man who had slapped him ordered. The other grabbed a hose that hung on the wall. A jet of ice-cold water shot from the end, almost pinning Lestrade to the tiles.  
"You're filthy. Ain't going to see the boss stinking of puke!"  
They hosed Lestrade down until he collapsed into a shivering heap.  
Not bothering that he was dripping wet, the grinning men grabbed his arms again. A fierce kick to his leg forced Lestrade to struggle up, before he was dragged rather than walked further down the corridor.

oOo

"No, he would never do that," John Watson said, shaking his head while smiling fondly at his wife. The newly wed couple sat at the breakfast table, discussing over tea and toast the benefits of vaccination in general and the necessity of flu shots in particular. Both of them already had had their shots. With plenty of Londoners suffering badly every autumn and winter Mary had enquired whether Sherlock too would get his flu shot.  
"Absolutely not!" John had answered her question.  
"Why not?"  
"It's just something he wouldn't do." John shrugged.  
"You could convince him," Mary suggested.  
"Yeah, right. Sherlock isn't going to get vaccinated. Even if I went down on my knees and begged him. He just won't!"  
"Come on, I bet he would." Mary took a sip of tea.  
"Wouldn't!"  
Mary paused and smiled. "If he does, what's in for me?" Her voice was as soft as honey.  
John thought for a while. Mary seemed to have a deep understanding of his former flatmate and still best friend. That prickly man didn't make friends easily. Okay, delete 'easily' without replacement. Unsettle people, yes. But Sherlock didn't make friends. Exclamation mark.  
With Mary, Sherlock had been amazingly friendly though.

They had met for lunch shortly after Sherlock's ... John momentarily thought 'resurrection' but replaced it with 'return'. John had greeted Greg Lestrade and gone for hanging up his and Mary's jackets. When he came back Sherlock had just arrived, and had been kissing Mary's cheek.  
"You never did that to me," had spluttered out of him - obviously without thinking whatsoever. Sherlock's eyebrows had shot up, almost disappearing in his hairline, Mary's mouth hung open, and Greg had looked like he might have a seizure.  
The doctor had flushed a deep scarlet, smiling bashfully.  
"What I meant... I mean... I... That's fine." John had spread his hands, adding in an afterthought, "I'm not gay."  
John had closed his eyes, wondering how he was supposed to extract his foot from his mouth when the detective approached him.  
"You never said you wanted one," Sherlock growled before his long elegant hands had engulfed John's face, tilted it slightly and kissed him on his cheek.  
"Better?" he had asked, eyes twinkling humorously, leaving John to blush to such an extent he wondered if every single ounce of blood had risen to his head.  
"We'll talk about this when we get home," Mary had threatened, making everybody laugh.

"John?" Mary looked enquiringly at her husband's face. John grinned, feeling a bit silly at the memory and shook his head.  
"What was your question, my love?"  
"If he does, what's in for me?"  
"How about a massage?" John offered.  
"Deal!" Mary got up.  
"But he has to take the vaccine willingly. Shooting him with a blowgun doesn't count."  
"I wouldn't dream of doing such a thing," Mary said. "I need to do some shopping, and you have to go to work." She kissed John. "Would you mind inviting Sherlock for dinner tomorrow?"  
John produced an 'I have no idea what you're up to' face but nodded. 

OOo

Greg Lestrade was dragged into some sort of office and jostled into a chair. The office looked a lot like one in a GP surgery. A very old one that is. Considering looks, smell and sounds the building was most likely deserted, before his kidnappers had taken up residence here. A tall man entered the room. Angular features, crew cut hairstyle. He was dressed smartly, his attire almost as expensive as Mycroft Holmes'. Greg estimated that he was in his mid-fifties. Probably 'the boss'. Immediately the brutes who had dragged him here straightened up. Greg wouldn't have been surprised if an 'at ease!' had been uttered from the boss.  
"My name is Milton Banks, Mr. Lestrade. I hope my colleagues have treated you well." The man had big brown eyes but his gaze held no warmth whatsoever.  
"What do you want from me?" Greg asked, anger finally catching up with him in his half frozen, still drugged state.  
"Okay, let's get straight to business. You have information I want, and there is only one possibility. You are going to give me that information. The question that remains is how much pain you will endure until I have my answer. Banks tilted his head slightly, studying his prisoner's face before shifting his gaze to his so called colleagues, nodding.  
Greg's arms were gripped and pulled behind his back. He swallowed hard. He was no hero who would endure hours of torture before spilling his guts. From what he knew those people only existed in a movie.  
"What I want to know are the security codes of New Scotland Yard's vault."  
Greg tried to hide his surprise. The vault held mostly confiscated drugs and weapons. It was located deep the bowels of the Yard. Opening it wasn't the most difficult part. Getting there in the first place was. Apparently that wasn't Banks' concern.  
As if reading Greg's mind he added, "No, I won't have problems getting as far as the vault, and I could blast it open but I don't want to damage the contents unintentionally.  
Greg didn't even want to think how many officers might get killed if this Milton Banks - 'where the fuck had he heard that name before?' - and his companions came waltzing into Scotland Yard.  
Suddenly his arms were pulled back with such ferocity that Greg feared his shoulders would be dislocated. He screamed in pain.  
Still... "No," Greg said, shaking his head. Maybe he could endure what they had in store for him for some time. Maybe it was enough time that his own colleagues realised he had vanished. They would come looking for him.  
Banks saw the feeble hope in the inspector's eyes, smiling cruelly.  
"Actually I had hoped you'd say no." He looked at his watch. "We still have time. Let's start with stage one, shall we?"  
He opened a cabinet, and within a small refrigerator, extracting a little glass tube that held a clear liquid. He showed it Greg.  
"This is a venom produced in our laboratories. Homemade if you will." Banks' smile deepened. "You see we have some fascinating creatures down here. I don't know how interested you are in arachnids. This is the poison of Latrodectus tredecimguttatus probably better known as the Black Widow. Her venom doesn't really kill. It only makes every single muscle in the body of her victim convulse. You have six hundred and fifty six muscles in your body, Mr. Lestrade. All muscles convulsing at the same time makes the pain, shall we say, exquisite?"  
Greg had forgotten how cold he was during Banks' little speech. When the man had finished he wasn't sure if the gooseflesh that covered his whole body came from being cold or the pure horror he felt.  
"Wait...," he began but Banks was no longer listening.  
With a quick move he pulled out a syringe, injecting the poison into Lestrade's neck.  
"It's a weakened version of the real thing. It doesn't last as long as the pure poison, and gives us time to talk later."  
He gave a dismissive wave with his hand, and Greg was walked back to his cell.  
On his way he saw two other men, dragging a young woman into a room. Her uniform suggested she was a police constable fresh from the academy. He could hear her crying, kicking and screaming until the door of his cell was slammed shut, leaving him once more in utter darkness.


	2. Chapter 2

2

Sherlock admitted grudgingly that he was hungry. The latest case had taken most of his energy. Even he who considered sleep boring had collapsed the day before into his bed. He had barely managed to drag the duvet over his body before falling asleep. Ten hours and a hot shower later he found Mrs. Hudson clattering away in his kitchen, producing tea, toast and scrambling eggs in the process. It took Sherlock mere minutes to devour everything, and about the same time to feel the first tingling of boredom again. Having eaten everything Mrs Hudson had made for him, Sherlock headed for the sofa. Letting himself fall back, he steepled his fingers under his chin. Bored!

He looked over to John's empty armchair allowing his mind to drift. Mrs Hudson had been partly wrong. John was still seeing his friend often, although he was married. They were still solving their fair share of crimes together but it wasn't the same. Sherlock had been used to solitude but having tasted the companionship of John had left an empty place - of course only in his flat. No one who made tea for him, he had to fetch the phone himself even when he became deeply engrossed in something, and didn't have time for banalities such as texting. John had selfishly taken his gun with him so Sherlock couldn't even shoot at the walls.

Closing his eyes Sherlock entered his mind-palace, heading straight for John's room for some company.

It was some hours later, Sherlock was still dressed in his pyjamas and dark-blue dressing-gown, when his phone beeped.

"Mrs. Hudson, the phone!" Sherlock shouted but his landlady, not his housekeeper thank you very much, had left hours ago.

The detective craned his neck, looking at the kitchen counter. There was his phone, and dirty dishes.

Pondering if it was worth getting up from the sofa Sherlock wiggled his toes against a cushion. He contemplated his feet for some time before he got up, walking right over the table to get into the kitchen.

Reading the text he had received lit up his face. Another case. Lestrade had been kidnapped.

'You're happy about a friend being kidnapped?'

"Shut up," Sherlock boomed. After his return and reunification with his friend a little part of John had taken up residence in Sherlock's head, providing unrequested comments on a variety of subjects. Usually moral aspects of dos and don'ts that hadn't bothered the detective in the past.

Instead of starting another argument with his newly acquired 'Johnscience' Sherlock got dressed and headed downstairs.

He stepped onto the street to get a cab and was almost run over by a black limousine that stopped mere inches from him. His brother Mycroft lowered the window.

"Get in, I'll give you a lift."

For once Sherlock didn't argue but got in the car.

Mycroft drove quietly, guiding the comfortable car skilfully through London's late afternoon rush hour. For the first minute Sherlock was busy typing on his phone, texting John Watson to join him asap. No sooner that the answer 'on my way' appeared, did Sherlock turn to his brother. Mycroft had lost weight, and it suited him. Sherlock however would rather throw himself in front of a tube train than voice that observation. Still his brother apparently had read his carefully disguised facial expression because the typical Holmes smirk invaded his features.

"What are you smirking at?" Sherlock asked. The amusement glittering in Mycroft's eyes were the only reaction that gave away he had actually heard the question.

The car hadn't completely stopped in the reserved parking area of New Scotland Yard when Sherlock jumped out, long legs carrying him effortlessly towards the building.

Sally Donovan approached him and a dark cloud appeared on the detective's face.

"No," she said, holding her hands up. "Please, for once don't start. I apologise for ever calling you a freak. Just find him, will you?"

Sherlock bit back half a dozen remarks before answering. "What have you got so far?" _Not much I presume._

Sally waved a young constable over.

_Twenty, lives with his parents, probably only his mother. Recently his girlfr... no, his boyfriend, interesting, broke up with him._ Before Sherlock could continue his train of thoughts, Sally went on.

"Carl found Lestrade's keys in his office just a few minutes after he had left yesterday evening."

"Exactly when?"

"Sixish," Carl piped up. "I looked up his address. It was only a few minutes walk from here so I figured he would come back soon enough. Left his keys with the guard. It was a busy night, and when I went home..."

"You had forgotten all about it," Sherlock filled the gap. "Anything else?"

"No." Carl shook his head.

Sherlock turned back to Sally but not before startling Carl with his observation that if he'd eat his burgers in the future without the tomato he'd feel better soon. The young officer looked confused at the detective, but haven't risen in rank far enough to open his mouth without authorisation he just nodded and walked away.

Sally rolled her eyes and shook her head. "I offered him a ride yesterday but he wanted to walk home." Sherlock bit his bottom lip, and looked at the floor.

"He gave me a wave when I left and that was the last I saw of him. The guard told me the DI's keys were here when I came in today. I thought..."

Sherlock produced an amused hum at her choice of words.

Clenching her fists, Sally repeated, "I thought! He was coming in late, having crashed at a friend's place. Something you wouldn't know about." She sneered at Sherlock.

"Greg, I mean DI Lestrade. He was as exhausted as everybody else after those murder investigations. When it turned noon and there was still no word from him we tried to contact him. And yes, we checked hospitals, family and friends, even his ex-wife. Eventually we sent a patrol car to his flat. At first they didn't find anything suspicious."

"Course they didn't," Sherlock sighed.

"However, when one of the officers walked around the house he found skidmarks on the lawn and a packet of cigarettes that belongs to the DI."

When Sherlock raised a questioning eyebrow she added, "His lighter was inside the packet."

"And why have you called me here instead of directly to the crime scene? I'm wasting precious time."

"Wanted to give the boys a head start before you'd lumber all over the place."

Sherlock felt his hackles rise.

"I don't lumber!"

"Hey," John came running into the office seeing at once that Sherlock and Sally were just short of strangling each other again.

Sherlock calmed visibly the moment John was at his side, and allowed a thin smile to tug up the corners of his mouth. "Where does he live nowadays?" he asked.

Sally gave him the address, and Sherlock stalked outside, John in his wake.

Neither Mycroft nor his car were anywhere to be seen, and since Lestrade had walked home the detective wanted to retrace the inspector's steps anyway.

Sherlock paused and closed his eyes for a few seconds. A map appeared in front of his inner eye, showing him the fastest and most logical route Lestrade had taken home.

Sally watched from the office window as the lanky detective and his shorter side-kick were walking away swiftly before she went for the phone to alert the crew on-site.

oOo

The pain that shot up Greg Lestrade's spine was so bad that it forced another whimper from him. His tongue and lips were already bleeding from biting into his own flesh when another cramp shot through his muscles. The inspector's whole body shook for several minutes. He curled into a foetal position eventually, rocking back and forth, moaning quietly.

Time passed, and the cramps became less and less frequent before they stopped altogether. He had lost all sense of time. It must have been less than twenty-four hours since he had been abducted but it felt much much longer. The exhaustion from the previous investigations, the drug they had knocked him out with, the cold, lack of food and water and now the poison that had been wreaking havoc inside his body had him almost defeated. Almost. A tiny little part of him still was willing to put up a fight.

Nevertheless it cost him every bit of composure not to crawl into a corner when the light in his cell came on again. For several minutes nothing happened. Greg's eyes adjusted to the light, and he could now see his prison as well as looking at his own body. The cell was a rectangular room, only a few square feet in diameter, with a high ceiling. Concrete floor, no window, only a metal door that lead to the corridor. Not much to look at.

His body was a different matter. Greg was glad that he couldn't see his face. His limbs and torso were covered in bruises and plenty of abrasions were visible, undoubtedly injuries from thrashing around the rough floor. Blood, vomit and sweat covered his skin. He wasn't a vain man but right now he was rather disgusted by his appearance.

The door opened and a guard, a new one, stuck his head inside. "Ready to talk?" the man asked.

Lestrade gave him the finger, certain that he'd be sorry soon.

"I guess that's a no," the man sneered.

Seconds later the door was shut with a bang, and he heard a body outside dropping heavily onto the floor.

The door opened again, and the female constable he had seen earlier stuck her head inside.

"Sir, if you feel up to it this might be a good time to leave the premises."

Greg gaped only for a second before he staggered to his feet.

"Shall I help you, Sir?"

Greg closed his eyes for a second. "Please, I'm almost naked, I stink and I hurt. Don't call me Sir. Greg will do just fine."

"Right, Sir... err.. Greg."

He noticed a bruise at the young constable's cheek, and her uniform was torn in some places. Apart from that she looked remarkably well.

Having felt his gaze she turned around. "I fight in the national squad - karate." She grinned. "Think we should get out of here."

Greg agreed wholeheartedly.

"Let's put him in here first. It might alert others if we leave him lying around." He indicated the unmoving body of his guard in the corridor.

Together they dragged the body in the cell Greg had just vacated.

"Wait a second," the inspector said, stripping off the man's jacket and t-shirt. Though he really wanted some trousers too he opted against the jeans the man wore. Taking them from an unconscious body would cost precious time. Besides, clad in the shirt and jacket he felt much better already. He frisked the man's pockets quickly, and was a little disappointed when he found neither weapon nor anything else that was useful.

They locked the guard inside the cell, and took off in the opposite direction to the one that Greg had been taken before.


	3. Chapter 3

3

John had been brought up to speed by the time he and Sherlock arrived on the scene. It had taken them merely ten minutes to get to the apartment building in question. The lawn with the skidmarks was roped off with tape, two officers securing the evidence.

Sherlock watched them for only a few seconds before turning to John.

"Besides the obvious fact that these two have conveniently trampled the whole area the abduction didn't take place here. Let's go and check the flat."

They walked to the building, climbing the stairs to the first floor.

"Didn't you say, Greg left his keys at the office?" John asked.

"I'm sure Greg is able to pick a lock, but he always had a second key to his flat in his car."

They found the flat that had Greg's name underneath the doorbell, and Sherlock pointed out a couple of small marks. "Somebody obviously had pried open the door."

"But it's closed now," John stated, pushing at the door with his shoulder.

Fumbling only for seconds with his lock picks, Sherlock opened the door carefully.

The light switch didn't work, or at least the lights didn't come on. The cutout probably had been tampered with. Both men pulled out their torches.

Even from the corner of his eye John could see Sherlock's face light up.

"That's what I call an undisturbed crime scene," the detective mumbled, and like an eager dog that had found a trail he started his investigation.

John knew better than to get in the way. For the first few minutes he stood quietly at the closed door, waiting for Sherlock to finish his round of the flat, even trying to think as little as possible so as not to disturb the detective's work.

"Greg was attacked in his bathroom. A drug obviously was administered, and he was carried ..." Sherlock stopped, went into the bedroom, and looked out of the window. Opening the window he looked down. Under the window a few shrubs were planted, clearly disturbed by a heavy object that had fallen into the them.

Anger glittered in Sherlock's eyes as he told John, "They didn't carry Lestrade outside. They dumped him out of the window."

John was appalled.

Sherlock ranged through the flat for another few minutes, taking tiny samples from carpet and windowsill, while John walked slowly through the rooms, hands behind his back, looking around curiously.

The tiny flat wasn't much to look at. There were still a couple of cardboard boxes in a corner, no pictures were hung on the wall, no personal items marked the rooms as belonging to anyone specific.

The doctor looked around in the bathroom, opened the small cabinet and was shining back and forth with his torchlight when a small object at the floor reflected the light.

"Sherlock!" John called out. When the detective's curly head peeped in, John shone his light down at the item.

A pair of tweezers appeared in Sherlock's hand and he pulled a tiny piece of aluminium foil out of the crack between the tiles. He carried it to the window where the light was better, turned it around, sniffed at it and ultimately put it into a small evidence bag.

Both men left the flat and headed outside where the inspector's body had landed in the shrubs.

"Footprints," Sherlock indicated, getting down on his hands and knees, his upper body more or less disappearing between the shrub's twigs and leaves.

John craned his neck, trying to see something from the top when he was startled by a voice directly behind him.

"Nice butt!"

He swirled around. "I beg your pardon?"

"Sorry, didn't mean you. Stacy Coons." The uniformed police officer with a dog at her heels extended her hand. She didn't look at John but had her eyes glued to Sherlock's behind.

"Oi!" The detective almost flew out of the shrub when he came face to face rather unexpectedly with the Belgian shepherd who had also crawled under the bush.

"Don't worry, Dobby won't bite. That is, unless I tell him. Which I haven't."

Sherlock quickly studied the woman. _Maybe an inch shorter than John, her blond hair tied into a ponytail, looking athletic._ _Forty, loves outdoors and swimming, single, had to fight for being accepted among the other K9-handlers, likes pasta._

"Sherlock - Stacy Coons, Stacy - Sherlock Holmes." John made the introduction. "And I'm John Watson, in case anybody is interested," he added by way of explanation.

Ignoring John, Stacy petted her dog which sat down obediently.

"Dobby can follow a trail backwards – a very unusual skill, but often useful when one wants to find out where victim or perpetrator came from." Sherlock didn't look too impressed. He was still indignant that the dog had made him jump out of the bush in a rather undignified way.

She smiled, not the least bit intimidated by Sherlock's unwavering gaze. "Since I wear a uniform some of my colleagues from the CID think I'm stupid. DI Lestrade doesn't though." She paused, tilting her head to the side, almost mirroring her dog who watched all three humans attentively.

"Do you want to know where they were waiting for DI Lestrade before deciding to enter the building before or after I tell Anderson and his team?" Stacy asked innocently.

The detective stopped being a sorehead. "Right away, of course," Sherlock answered, and Stacy guided them toward a group of trees near the next building.

"Over there," Stacy pointed at the trees. Only Dobby went there. He can work up to 50 yards from my position. He's much less likely to contaminate a crime scene than a human is."

John decided that since Sherlock hadn't insulted either Stacy or Dobby so far it was a very high praise from the detective. He watched Sherlock walking to the trees, looking around in concentration, when Stacy turned to face him.

"Doctor Watson, um, John, I know who you are. I have seen you working with DI Lestrade several times. Just because I'm not on stage so to speak doesn't mean I don't observe."

John and Stacy chatted amiably for a minute or two, and John got the impression that the woman worried deeply about Greg's safety. Her concern went beyond that of a mere colleague.

Before Sherlock finished looking around, Stacy told the doctor she'd rather go back to the others.

"I don't want to provoke anyone into seeking revenge for informing you first."

"Then tell them what you've found. Sherlock should be done any minute, and we're used to taking the beating."

The woman handed John a card with her name and number. "In case you are in need of a great dog and an extra pair of fists, call me."

Stacy nodded her goodbye, and looking over where Sherlock was bustling about one last time she walked away, Dobby at her heels.

Sherlock came back to John the moment Anderson came running around the building, his face red, his hair dishevelled. Before Sherlock could get into an argument with the angry looking man John dragged him in the opposite direction.

"Come on let's get a cab and leave."

When both men headed for the street they saw Stacy again. She was sitting cross-legged on the lawn, obviously in deep conversation with Dobby. It confused Sherlock enough that he filed his observation to investigate later what that was about.

oOo

"Slow down," Greg panted, trying to keep up with the young woman. He was in a pretty bad shape, and although it had been only a few minutes since he had escaped his prison he felt like he had run a marathon.

They had been hurrying along dimly lit corridors that looked more or less identical to Greg's eyes. Often a corridor had a dead end and they had to retrace their steps. Junctions here and there, sometimes doors but that was it. No stairs, no windows. Greg's legs felt like lead and his head was pounding.

The young constable stopped when she noticed his wheezing breath, turned around and looked at him. Thinking only for a moment she checked the next door. Pushing down the handle without making any noise, she peered inside the room. A table, two chairs, a washbasin. Nothing else.

"Maybe you could rest in here for a while."

Greg was too exhausted to argue. He nodded, slipped into the empty room and slumped down on one of the chairs. He was shaking, and certain that he had never felt worse in his entire life.

The woman watched him for a moment. Eventually she cleared her throat.

"Why did they take you? I mean, what did they want to know?" she asked.

Greg looked at her with blood-shot eyes. "You probably know that there's a large vault in the Yard. They wanted to know the combination to open the vault."

The young PC looked at him sceptically. "And that's why they did," she indicated his body, "this to you?" He shrugged.

"Well, I'll go and check the corridor ahead while you rest here. Is that okay."

"Sure, go ahead." Greg nodded.

"By the way, what's your name?"

"Zoe Lincoln, until a week ago I was with the Northumbrian police in Newcastle. Just been transferred to the Metropolitan police."

She opened the door carefully, and quietly slipped out of the room.

Greg licked his dry and cracked lips, when he noticed the basin. A washbasin meant water. Struggling up he turned the tap, and water started flowing. For a minute or two he just drank in large gulps before sitting down again on one of the chairs. Putting his arms on the table as a cushion for his head he fell asleep within seconds.

Only minutes later somebody shook his shoulder.

"Wha...?" Greg opened his bloodshot eyes.

"Sorry, Sir... Greg. We can't stay here. I think I heard voices down the corridor, we have to keep moving. But first, look what I've found." An energy bar was pressed into Greg's hand. Without a second glance he pulled of the wrapper and gobbled down most of it without actually tasting anything.

"Just a second." Greg got up, drank another mouthful of water from the tap and stuffed the rest of the energy bar into his mouth, this time chewing more thoroughly.

"Thank you. Now I only need two days of sleep, and I'll be as good as new." He tried to smile weakly.

"And for this," he showed her the wrapper, "I will certainly suggest you for a promotion as soon as we're back in the real world."

Zoe smiled weakly, peeped out of the door, and ushered Greg outside.

"Actually I've got another surprise for you. You won't believe it but I finally found some sort of a window."

They walked to the end of the corridor without seeing anyone, turning at a couple of corners in the process, and there was the window. Not really a window, more some kind of funnel. Pitch dark outside, Greg assessed, looking up at the sky. A light draft came through the funnel. Greg smelt the air. London in the night, water, probably the Thames, a funny smell that was familiar but which he couldn't quite identify. He also heard the rattling of a train going over a bridge.

"You heard that?" Zoe suddenly whispered in his ear. Certain she didn't mean the noise from the train, Greg was about to say no, when he heard it too. Footsteps and voices. _Shit!_ They ran as quietly as possible around another corner. For once Greg was grateful that he was running with bare feet. Seeing a cupboard in a corner Zoe opened the door and looked inside. Some blankets, nothing else.

"Would you mind terribly hiding in here for another few minutes, while I check the surroundings once more?"

No, Greg didn't mind. He knew he was slowing her down. Neither water nor that little bit of food had really revived him yet. He grabbed the young woman's shoulders.

"Look, Zoe, right now I'm not much help when it comes to escaping. If you find a way out, leave me here and get the cavalry rather than coming back right away."

She nodded hesitantly.

"These people want something that is inside New Scotland Yard's vault. Don't know what it is but getting out a warning is more important than I am. Do you understand?"

Zoe nodded again. "And, do you know the vaults security code?" she asked.

"Sure I do, didn't tell them though." Greg smiled tiredly. "Now go." The woman hurried away, and Greg closed the cupboard's door from the inside.


	4. Chapter 4

4

No sooner than John and Sherlock had climbed into a cab the detective's phone rang. He looked at the display. Mrs Hudson. What could she possibly want?

Sherlock took the call, listened for a minute before hanging up.

"What was that about?" John asked.

There's a bomb threat near Baker Street. The whole area is closed. We can't get to the flat.

"Barts?" John asked.

Sherlock shook his head. "Dr. Hooper went on holiday with her we-have-quite-a-lot-of-sex boyfriend, and somebody erased my security clearance for entering Bart's labs.

Right now I can't even get close to the building without provoking an arrest."

John rubbed his chin. "Um, Mary and I, we have a little lab and some stuff at home you could use. A microscope for example."

"Better than nothing, I suppose," Sherlock conceded.

John gave a wry smile at his friend's ungracious attitude before he directed the cab to his home instead of Baker Street.

"Hey you," Mary greeted both men at the door, kissing John and letting Sherlock pass, who's look indicated he wouldn't appreciate a hug right now.

John left his friend alone in the "lab", went to fetch some tea and explained the situation to Mary.

"You go and help Sherlock, I'll try to find out if and when he can go back to Baker Street."

As it turned out, Baker Street would be off limits for the rest of the night. John kept making tea for Sherlock, a sandwich he was sure his friend wouldn't eat and prepared the guest room for him. He knew Sherlock wouldn't sleep but he probably needed to lie down to think.

"Bathroom is upstairs. Towels and everything else you might need are in the cabinet on the right." John told the detective. Knowing they wouldn't help Sherlock by disturbing him, John and Mary went into the living-room to watch some telly.

An hour had passed when Sherlock came in so suddenly both of them jumped.

"You don't happen to have any nicotine-patches?"

John immediately shook his head, Mary followed suit hesitating just a second.

Sherlock disappeared again with a huff.

Some hours later John stretched, and checked one more time on his friend. Sherlock lay stretched out on his bed. He looked quite peaceful, was obviously thinking and ignored John's goodnight. John saw three nicotine-patches on his friend's forearms and wondered where he had obtained them.

In the bathroom he discovered with a mixture of amusement and annoyance that Sherlock had used his toothbrush. Changing into his pyjamas John climbed into bed, snuggling close to Mary who had gone to bed earlier.

Mary kissed him. "You owe me a massage," she quipped.

"What?" John looked at her in confusion.

"You promised me a massage when I got Sherlock to take his vaccination."

"So?"

"He put the nicotine-patches on we had in the bathroom, didn't he?"

"Since when do we have nicotine-patches in our house?"

"We had today."

"Sorry, I still don't get it," John replied.

Mary rolled over, smiling sweetly at John. "My love, those nicotine-patches," her wiggling fingers substitute for quotation marks, "are the latest invention for patients with a phobia for injections. Instead of the nicotine they are soaked with a vaccine - in this case for the flu."

"I changed the wrapping and hid them in the bathroom, having an inkling that Sherlock might pinch them."

John couldn't help himself. He began laughing, and couldn't stop for several minutes.

OOo

Greg had curled up in the cupboard, ready to doze off again when he felt something poking into his side. Checking the jacket he had nicked, he found a pocket he hadn't noticed before. Inside was a mobile phone._ Yes!_

No code was required to unlock it. For a moment Greg thought of calling 999 but the phone got no signal. _Bugger!_ There might be a signal near the funnel they had encountered but calling from a phone that even there probably received a weak signal at best might alert Banks and his men. He could send a text though. He knew Sherlock's number by heart and was certain the clever detective would find him, even with only a few clues.

He had just entered Sherlock's number when he recalled that it was the old number. The one before the detective had faked his death. He tried to remember the new one but he only could recall the first three digits. Okay, Mycroft Holmes' number than. That number was easy enough, a mixture of his ex-wife's date of birth and his licence plate. The elder Holmes would most likely contact his younger brother for help.

Greg began to prepare the message. 'Alive.' No, delete that. Obviously he was alive. Dead people didn't text.

_Hurt. Old clinic? near Thames, noise train over bridge, funny smell._ Thinking for a moment he added _(ask John)_. He knew the last time he had caught that smell John had been with him, and they both had said "funny smell".

_Milton Banks, bad, poison; secure Yard's vault. PC Zoe Lincoln got away? GL_

Hearing voices and steps from at least two people outside, Greg froze and hardly dared breathing. They were clearly looking for him and PC Lincoln. Fortunately nobody had bothered checking the cupboard.

The phone told him it was almost 2:30 in the morning when he finally dared leaving his hideout. Greg scurried back where he knew he'd find the funnel, when he heard noises from the other direction. He ran, mobile in hand, hoping the phone would pick up a signal sooner rather than later. When he reached the funnel he heard steps and voices coming his way.

"There he is!" a man shouted and came running towards him.

Nowhere to hide, he pressed the send-button.

"Message has been sent", appeared on the phone. Not a moment too soon. Greg shoved the phone back into the jacket and started running when he heard a scream. Another man came around the corner, holding Zoe Lincoln in a tight grip. _Shit, __they got her!_

"I'll twist off her head, if you don't stop right away," the man shouted. Greg stopped, and turning around he recognised her capture as the one she had knocked out. He was probably mad as hell.

Besides, the vault's contents were safe now, and Sherlock would find him, hopefully very soon. The inspector thought, he probably wouldn't have been able to escape anyway in this labyrinth. Rising his hands, he surrendered.

The woman was released when the other man got hold of the DI. The man hit him twice in the stomach, sending him to the ground. He had almost expected that. But then PC Lincoln came over, kicked him in his crotch so hard, Greg screamed in pain and surprise.

He was still on the floor, squirming in pain when Milton Banks walked around the corner.

"He knows the Vault's security code, Dad!" Lincoln told him.

The man smiled coldly. "Good girl."

"I think it's time we extract that information from him."

Banks gestured and Greg was kicked in the face and lost conscience.


	5. Chapter 5

**Author's Note: First, thank you for the kind comments on my first story. This is chapter 5 of 7 - so only two more to come. Chapter 6 and 7 are already finished but need a bit more proofing from my wonderful Beta Jack63Kids. So don't worry, I'm not going to suffer from Writer's block and leave you - and poor Greg - hanging. :-) **

**Not sure if I have to mention that I obviously don't own any of the characters. ACD, Steven Moffat and Mark Gatiss are the rightfully entitled writers.**

5

It was close to 2.30 in the morning when John woke up with a strong sense of being watched. A shard of light fell in the room. It illuminated the outline of Sherlock, who was sitting with his knees drawn to his chest at the foot of John's bed, looking at his friend calmly.

John blinked, not believing this was happening. Maybe if he ignored him. He turned onto his other side and closed his eyes again. It didn't help. John still felt his friend's eyes boring through him.

After a minute or two he felt Sherlock shifting. He thought for a moment he had actually won, that the detective was leaving. Instead the duvet was lifted and a pair of rather cold feet took residence against John's calves.

The doctor gasped, and gave up. Quietly, for he didn't want to disturb Mary, he slipped out of his bed, and padded out of the room. Only a gentle rustle of the sheets betrayed Sherlock following him.

John walked down into the living room. He sat down on one end of the sofa, pulled his feet up and slipped them under a folded blanket. Sherlock quietly sat down on the other end of the sofa, mirroring the doctor's position and wiggling his rather cold toes under the blanket to warm them.

"You're going to get socks for Christmas this year," John told him. "What is so frickin' important, Sherlock, for you to wake me up in the middle of the night?" John held up his hand, before Sherlock could answer. "It can't be that important, otherwise you would have chosen a less subtle method of waking me."

"It's 2.40 now, well beyond midnight, the test results won't be available for another hour..."

"Please, don't tell me you were bored," John grumbled.

"No, I'm not bored. In fact I have a question that needs an answer which I can't provide myself."

John blinked, shook his head in surprise and got up. He walked into the kitchen, rummaged around in a drawer, uttering an "ah, there". Sherlock heard a click, swish and click before the drawer was closed, and John came back.

"What was that about?" Sherlock asked curiously.

"I got a red marker and marked this legendary day in the calendar. The day Sherlock Holmes didn't have an answer to a question."

Sherlock pouted but, knowing his friend would leave eventually, he asked, "Why was Miss Coons talking to her dog?"

John looked nonplussed. "Why what?"

"The dog handler. When we were leaving I saw her talking to her dog. Dobby. What sort of name is that anyway?"

"Dobby is a house-elf," John answered absent-mindedly. He heard Sherlock inhale, and held up his hand.

"A house-elf from the Harry Potter books. Fiction."

"Ah!" Sherlock had heard about those books, knowing that John had read them with great interest.

"So, why was she talking to her dog?" Sherlock asked again.

"There are several reasons why she could have talked to her dog," John said, scratching his left eyebrow. "Dogs, pets in general, don't betray your confidence, they listen, they don't criticise, they don't laugh at you, they know when you're not feeling well, comforting without ulterior motives." John produced a snorting sound. "Those are the reasons I can come up with off the cuff."

Sherlock nodded, more or less understanding the concept. "Dogs don't mark dates in a calendar," he added.

A smile crept on John's face.

"Can I go back to bed now?"

Something beeped, and Sherlock walked to the lab in a hurry. "I guess not," John mumbled, pulling up his pyjama bottoms, and following Sherlock.

The detective bustled around the small room, comparing notes he had made with a diagram on the internet.

"The soil I've discovered in the carpet clearly comes from the Thames embankment. The question is from where. The other particles are from a weed that has been cultured in a laboratory. It's a cross-breed between chickweed and bindweed. Both weeds grow really fast, produce plenty of triclosan and are used to detoxify contaminated areas. Usually former industrial areas where the buildings were all or mostly torn down."

John laid out a large map of London and Sherlock pointed to three areas near the Thames where those weeds were currently used. Two sites in London's east, the other one in the west.

"Former chemical plant here," Sherlock pointed at the area in the west.

"Ex-military shipyard here." Sherlock pointed to one area in the east.

"And that area," he pointed to the one in London's very east, "has such a fat 'CLASSIFIED' printed all over it I couldn't find a single bit of information."

"Mycroft could," John suggested. Sherlock looked like he had suggested tearing out his fingernails.

John scratched his chin. "What about that piece of foil? Anything special about it?"

"Not much, the letter H is visible but with just this, a product name is difficult to deduce. It's most likely blister-foil. Sherlock got up. Let's go, we start with the classified area."

John hurried up the stairs, quietly grabbing his clothes. He wrote a note for Mary and got dressed. When he came down Sherlock was ready to go.

"By the way, those nicotine-patches suck," Sherlock told John, who had difficulties hiding his grin.

They went outside.

"Mary will need the car in a few hours. Let's grab a cab," John said, waving one over.

"Any objections if I ask Stacy and Dobby to join us? We might need a sniffer dog."

Sherlock shook his head. "Might be useful. But only if she's coming without other forces. We can't have half of the Metropolitan police trample around."

Stacy answered after the second ring, sounding only a little tired. Yes, she would join them, but she had to bring along another dog. That was acceptable to Sherlock, so John gave her the address and hung up.

They sat in the cab in comfortable silence, looking out into the night. Twenty minutes later the cab pulled over, and they got out.

They had just left the cab and were walking towards the Thames when John heard a rather well-known piece of music from the movie Psycho. John's eyes were bulging when Sherlock pulled out his phone.

Sherlock's face indicated that his brother Mycroft was calling, before the detective took the call.

He listened for two minutes, and hung up without further ado.

"Since when do you have Psycho for a ring-tone?"

"Two weeks. Only for my brother's calls."

John smiled. Psycho had been one of the movies he had more or less forced Sherlock to watch. If nothing else, the music had left some impression.

John was about to ask what his ringtone might be, when Sherlock spoke up.

"Mycroft received a text from Lestrade," Sherlock told him.

"Great, where is he?"

"He texted he was hurt, poison was used, he's in some sort of old clinic near the Thames and a train crossing a bridge could be heard. Furthermore he texted that there was a funny smell which you should recognise."

"Me? How would I know what he has smelt?"

"Come on, John, think. He wouldn't have texted 'ask John' unless he thought you would know what sort of funny smell."

"Yes!" John suddenly shouted. "And I remember something else."

Immediately he had Sherlock's undivided attention.

"Greg and I have been out for a beer some month ago. Actually weren't too far from here when we caught a funny smell. As it turned out the smell came from a factory that produces jelly beans."

"Where is that factory?" Sherlock asked.

"Look." They had just emerged between two buildings and now had a clear view of the Thames and the other side of the river. John pointed at a factory. A white plume was visible over one of its chimneys, drifting slowly over the Thames towards a dark area to their left.

"That must be it," John said.

"You said you remembered something else," the detective asked.

"Yes, right. That area down there housed an old laboratory and a clinic used before World War II by military. Eventually it was closed down. They demolished the building but as far as I remember there were several floors below the ground."

"Maybe the laboratory isn't as closed down as we think," Sherlock deducted.

They had reached the chain link fence that went all the way around the area.

Hearing a car approach, they ducked behind some rubbish containers, but as it turned out it was Stacy. She switched off the car's headlights and motor, and inched the last 100 yards to the threshold by letting her car just roll. When she had come to a complete stop, the car was approached by both men. Stacy hopped out and pulled them away from the car.

"Don't come any closer. The dogs might get excited and start barking."

They walked away for a few yards before telling Stacy what they knew.

"Shouldn't we wait for backup?" she asked.

Sherlock shook his head. "I'm certain backup is on its way. My brother undoubtedly traced my phone, and is sending over his men as we speak. We better hurry and try to get Lestrade out before they arrive.

"I'll make an opening in the fence. You go get your dog."

Stacy went to the car and came back a minute later with Dobby who looked eager to start whatever job he would be given.

"Before we go in, I have to prepare you," Stacy said. She pulled up a small bottle of lotion with a faint smell.

"Put some of that on your hands and faces. I trained Dobby to recognise it as the scent of the good guys."

"Good idea," Sherlock muttered. It was a known fact that police dogs couldn't distinguish between perpetrator and fellow police officers, and the latter therefore got bitten quite frequently when a police dog was unleashed.

Now that they were properly prepared they entered the area and went looking for an entrance to the building.


	6. Chapter 6

6

When Greg Lestrade came around he felt worse than ever. His right eye was swollen shut and his abdomen still hurt from the kick. So much for PC Lincoln. She wasn't even an ally, but Milton Banks was her father. Fantastic!

When he forced open his good eye he could see his two friends from the day before. They had tied him to a chair, and were looking at him expectantly.

"I'm going to tell you the security code," Greg announced but that only got the men laughing.

"Sure you will. Since you warned your friends there's no longer any need to hold it back, eh?" One of the men sneered, pointing to a body that lay motionless on the ground.

Even with his throat cut and his face beaten to pulp Greg recognised the man he had taken t-shirt and jacket from. Apparently leaving the mobile in the jacket hadn't been part of the plan.

"We are no longer interested in that code of yours. The boss told us we could have some fun with you."

"Ever heard of Pot Hitting?" the other man asked.

Greg had heard about it and paled visibly, A metal bucket would be put over the his head before someone would hit the bucket with a bat. He had seen two victims who had died from injuries inflicted by this particular form of torture. They had looked terrible, and their deaths hadn't been quick.

The men had seen his discomfort, evil grins plastered on their faces.

"Miss Banks will have some fun with you too."

"I'll go tell her he's awake," one of the men said and left.

oOo

Sherlock, John and Stacy had walked over to the ruins of the laboratory building. The single door they found hadn't been locked. They had let themselves in and quickly found stairs that led down to the basements.

Three floors down, the corridor was dimly lit not pitch black as the others above had been. As fast and as quietly as possible they continued. When they came to a junction, John peered around the corner with a tiny mirror.

"Guard in front of a room, about fifteen meters from the corner," he murmured.

Sherlock only thought about the situation for a second.

"You got a ten pound note?"

John opened his mouth but decided on closing it without asking the obvious question about what Sherlock wanted with his money. He pulled out a twenty.

"Will that do?"

Sherlock nodded, crumpled the note slightly in his hand and took John's mirror to check on the guard. When he was certain that the guard was looking the other way he placed the money on the floor, clearly visible to the guard, when he looked that way. They waited.

Only two minutes had passed when the man noticed something on the floor. He came closer but when he saw it was money he approached with his guard down.

John had him in a tight grip the moment he bend down to pick up the money and Sherlock silenced him with a few well placed blows.

"Nice one!" Stacy looked impressed.

They went towards the door the man had guarded. No sound was audible. With utmost care Sherlock opened the door and looked inside. Rows and rows of terrariums of various size were in this room. Some were occupied by spiders, others by snakes. Every single creature that was kept there was extremely venomous.

They left the room as quietly as they had entered it. The corridor ended in a large room which had some sort of pool, maybe five to ten meters, in the middle.

Dobby had started whining several yards back but now the humans smelt it too. It was some sort of bath that held acid. They all pressed a sleeve or other piece of clothing to their nose to breath through. Sherlock looked at a canister and quickly ushered them along.

The corridor continued on the other side. When the air smelt clean again Sherlock explained that some acid was in the pool for purposes unknown.

The next door led to a small changing room with a shower. Directly opposite was another door. Before Sherlock could touch the handle, Stacy touched his shoulder and pointed quietly at Dobby. The dog didn't make a sound but his raised hackles and bared teeth spoke a very clear language.

They retraced their steps and murmured to each other. Whoever was in this room needed to be questioned. They had already been in the building for fifteen minutes, and needed to find Lestrade as soon as possible. Once Mycroft's people arrived, and Sherlock was sure they were on their way, the chance of being discovered were far greater.

Stacy held back in order to provide backup. John and Sherlock, being a well-rehearsed team, went in and within seconds they had tackled a man.

Hardly any threats were necessary to convince the man that telling them where Lestrade was held was a terrific idea. He ended up unconscious and tied up in his laboratory. Sherlock would have loved to investigate right away what the venomous animals were for and what else they were doing in this facility but he knew his curiosity had to wait.

Now knowing where to find the Inspector they hurried to the end of the corridor and slowly went down another floor. The end of the stairs ended in a well-lit area with nowhere to hide. Stacy stopped both men and gestured for them to wait. With another gesture she told Dobby to check if the coast was clear. The dog pricked up its ears and sniffed the air before gently wagging its tail. A dog's way of saying all is well.

They hurried downstairs and followed another corridor, not as dark as the one they just came from, and finally found the room where Greg was supposed to be. Opposite was a niche. Stacy told Dobby to stay hidden and nodded. Without further ado they entered the room, finding it indeed occupied by Lestrade, tied to a chair, a body lying in the corner and a man who had just raised his fist to hit his prisoner. It took both Sherlock and John to tackle that man and this time the whole procedure was very noisy. Stacy went over to Lestrade.

"Hey, we're getting you out of here," she told him as gently as possible. She had a general idea how much he must he had suffered because first he shrank away from her with a whimper.

Greg was in pain but he felt gentle fingers untying him. He opened his good eye, and caught sight of a blond woman who looked familiar.

"Stacy?" he asked, his voice hardly audible.

"Yeah, it's me. And Sherlock and John. We're getting you out of here."

Suddenly Lestrade's eyes went wide. More reacting than seeing, Stacy kicked back, aiming at about that spot where the torso of an attacker would be. At the same moment she heard a scream outside of the room and a deep growl. Stacy's heavy boot connected solidly with a young woman's face who crumbled immediately unconscious to the ground.

"Sorry," Stacy told Lestrade and went outside where Dobby had sunk his teeth into the arm of a man. Stacy kicked the man in the hollow of his knee and he went down. Another serious hit, this time with her baton that she had pulled out of nowhere, and the man went still.

"Watch him," she told Dobby, and the dog sat down beside him.

Stacy went back inside the little room. Sherlock and John had finally subdued the man, and the doctor had just got up to help Lestrade.

Sherlock quickly checked on the body in the corner but that one was dead.

Lestrade was again only dressed in his briefs, and was shivering.

Sherlock shrugged out of his coat, wrapping the inspector in the rough but warm piece of clothing.

Together they left as fast as they could, dragging Lestrade along.

When they came up the first flight of stairs they saw laser-beams penetrating the corridor.

Mycroft's men had arrived.

The attack force passed them just behind that strange pool, just pausing a short moment when they saw Stacy. Sherlock hadn't mentioned her presence to his brother.

"John, I want to go back. I need to see the labs before these morons destroy everything." The doctor clearly wasn't happy but knew Sherlock would go with or without his consent. "I'll get Greg and Stacy to the stairs, than I'll follow you." Sherlock just nodded and hurried away. It took less than a minute to reach the stairs.

"We can manage," Lestrade whispered, seeing that John was desperate to go after Sherlock.

Stacy held Lestrade upright, and with Dobby in tow they began climbing the stairs.

John went off like a shot. When he neared the pool he heard a scream and a loud splash. Oh no, that was not good. Not good at all.

"Sherlock!" he shouted. John had almost reached the pool when a figure knocked into his side so hard that he stumbled. A kick followed and John disappeared into the pool too. Whoever the perpetrator was, John couldn't see him, keeping his eyes closed against the corrosive fluid.

A strong hand grabbed his arm, and pulled him upright. The pool wasn't deep and John could feel rather than see that it had been Sherlock who helped him to stand up. _Thank god_!

Both men climbed out of the pool quickly, already feeling a tingling sensation on their bodies as the acid began its destructive work.

"Sherlock, the shower. We need to get that stuff off our bodies as quickly as possible." The detective nodded and they ran quickly to the room in which they had seen the shower.

They saw a couple of Mycroft's men when they dashed along, one of them, upon seeing them disappearing into the shower, spoke into his radio.

Sherlock and John entered the room, and John immediately began stripping out of his soaked clothes. Sherlock followed suit but much slower. John was already in the nude when Sherlock had barely managed to take off his shoes and socks.

"What are you doing, man? That acid will burn you."

Sherlock eyes widened, and his body went rigid. Burn him. Those had been Moriarty's words way back. They still gave him the creeps.

Sherlock shook his head to chase Moriarty's image out of his head.

Suddenly John stood before him, and started unbuttoning Sherlock's shirt.

"What are you doing?"

"Unbuttoning your shirt, duh!"

"I can do this myself," Sherlock said.

John had no problems with that. The moment Sherlock's hands took care of the shirt buttons, he unbuckled Sherlock's belt, opened the button and unzipped him.

Sherlock produced a surprised gasp when his trousers vanished south.

Knowing the doctor would have no reservations whatsoever Sherlock quickly slapped the invading hands away, shrugged out of his shirt and pants.

"Satisfied?" he asked.

John opened and closed his mouth, thinking about a clever answer, but nothing came to his mind. Instead he grabbed Sherlock's hand and pulled him forward.

There was only one shower but that had to do. Before the detective could utter a protest John had shoved him under the spray for an initial cleaning. Sherlock only took a few seconds before letting John take his place. The detective had turned modestly to the wall when the spray had hit him but John didn't indulge to such inhibitions. He rubbed his skin as far as he could reach with bold strokes, turning his face into the spray.

"Second round for you," John said, pushing Sherlock back under the spray of water, already walking over to a shelf were he had discovered soap that was especially manufactured to wash off acid.

Sherlock observed John closely. That man felt really secure in his body. Being a doctor a bit of exposed skin didn't alarm him, and Sherlock guessed that privacy was the last thing on the mind of soldiers on a mission in Afghanistan.

John squished a large amount of soap into the palm of his hand, and began the washing procedure again. Sherlock looked in amazement as the doctor more or less danced naked in front of his eyes, bending and stretching while covering himself with soft white foam. John eventually stopped.

"I need help with my back. With that stupid shoulder I can't reach there properly."

Sherlock's eyes looked like saucers. John huffed, grabbed Sherlock's hand and squished a large amount of soap into his palm before turning, standing close enough that Sherlock could remain under the spray of water while being able to reach his friend's back.

Surrendering into his fate, Sherlock first started tentatively rubbing John's shoulders but eventually was quite enthusiastically rubbing soap all the way down to the small of his back. John made happy sounds as his friend's strong hands not only seemed to wash but also dug into his muscles, relaxing them in the process.

Suddenly John's eyes flew open. By accident, surely it had been accidentally, Sherlock had rubbed over his rear.

John blushed and quickly turned around, bringing in the process another part of his anatomy in contact with those clever hands. Stepping backwards John slipped and almost fell, had Sherlock not gripped him tightly and pulled John to his chest.

For a moment they stood there, the doctor and the detective, skin to skin, under the shower.

John blinked, and managed to get a grip, a weak one though, on himself.

"You can let go of me now." He licked his lips. "I think it's time we switched places. I mean, you soap I water shower..." Shit, he was babbling, and it didn't take a great detective's mind to notice.

Sherlock, who had ended up wedged in between John's body and the tiled wall, slid past his friend. Deciding this was a really good time to present John with his backside rather than his front, he grabbed the soap, and started washing.

A minute or two passed in silence, only running water and soapy hands gliding over skin could be heard.

"Shall I do your back?" John asked, his voice alarmingly high.

"Nope," Sherlock answered but handed John the bottle with the soap anyway.

"Okay!"

John filled his palm with soap, took a deep breath and began washing Sherlock's back.

God, he envied him for that beautiful skin. Yes, some scars were visible there too. Probably some from what he had endured before coming back to London. But all in all he was perfect.

They traded places one more time, and eventually turned off the shower.

On the shelf they found two towels, and towled themselves dry.


	7. Chapter 7

7

Stacy had half-carried Greg Lestrade up another flight of stairs when finally help arrived. Two of Mycroft's team picked up the Inspector effortlessly, carrying him outside where an ambulance was already waiting. Stacy quickly brought Dobby to her car, and locked him in before returning to the ambulance.

One of the paramedics asked if she'd come along, but Stacy shook her head. She went in quickly though and caressed Lestrade's face with her fingertips.

His eyelids fluttered.

"Would it be okay if I checked on you later?" she asked.

"Yes, please do that."

Since he was half asleep Stacy dared to place a kiss on his forehead.

"Cute girlfriend you got yourself," the paramedic told Lestrade once she had left.

"Not my girlfriend," he answered, sounding a bit sad.

"You might want to force the issue when you're back on your feet."

With that the doors were banged shut and the ambulance drove off.

Stacy was wondering what she could do, when Mycroft Holmes approached her. She knew he was government, and these people never talked to her. However this one did.

"You have been down there with my brother and Doctor Watson," he stated rather than asked.

"Yeah," Stacy replied.

"Both Sherlock and the good Doctor fell into that pool down there." Mycroft Holmes made it sound as if they had just overlooked the pool and fell in by pure stupidity.

Stacy narrowed her eyes. "Are they okay?"

"Oh yes, quite all right. But they need dry clothes. Would you mind?" He handed her a bundle of sweatpants, shirts, socks and trainers, not a question but order in his voice.

"No, I don't mind." Stacy took the bundle and bounded down the stairs again, glad she had something to do.

Most likely they had gone to that bathroom to wash off the acid. Stacy hoped they were okay. That Mycroft person hadn't looked worried but he didn't seem to be the worrying type to begin with. Not thinking that knocking might be appropriate Stacy entered the changing room without announcing her presenceand found herself face to face with two very naked men. John looked surprised but seeing she brought clothes he even took a step towards her. Sherlock however had immediately turned around, closing his eyes in humiliation. John had stretched out his hands to the bundle of clothes but Stacy clearly stared past him. She had a clear view of Sherlock's backside as well as his front, thanks to a full-length mirror at the wall.

John grinned when he saw her hard drive going into overload.

"May I have these?" he asked, indicating the clothes she brought.

Stacy nodded, and with a last rather longing look at she left, a silly smile plastered to her face. She absolutely adored Greg Lestrade but that didn't mean she couldn't appreciate the sight of the consulting detective's body put on display like that.

Coming out of the ruined building she walked over to her car, legs still a bit wobbly. Maybe eighty meters away she saw Mycroft Holmes talking into his phone, when behind him a figure emerged from the shadow of one of the cars. Knife in hand, that shadow approached him.

Her next move was pure reflex. "Throw away your weapon or I'll unleash Hell." She had always dreamt of shouting that. The other dog's name, a mighty German Shepard was named Hell. And Hell she was. Dobby bit too but in a nice sort of way. Hell tore into her victims with almost supernatural power. She was known for crushing bone when she got really mad.

The shadow didn't stop, and Stacy tore open the door and showed Hell where to go by just pointing. Mycroft had turned around at her shout. He saw a dark clad figure with a knife sprinting towards him, and the dog almost flying towards that person. Within seconds Hell had caught her victim. It screamed when Hell tore into a shoulder.

Seconds later Stacy was there, pulling the angry dog away from the figure. As it turned out this was the woman she had kicked in the face. Two of Mycroft's men came running over, and arrested the woman. She bled and her shoulder was most likely broken. 'Serves you right!' Stacy thought, pulling out Hell's toy and letting her play with it.

Mycroft Holmes stood in front of Stacy, still somewhat shocked. He was not the type of man who got involved in action. He liked the security and serenity of his office. Incidents like this were the reason why he hated fieldwork.

"Thank you," he said simply.

Stacy smiled. "You're welcome. Almost even."

"Even?" Mycroft tilted his head. "I don't understand."

"Thank you," she put emphasis on the second word, actually grabbing hold of the forbidding looking man, kissing him on his cheek. "Thank you for letting me bring John and Sherlock their clothes."

The woman's face displayed quite clearly what she had seen, and though Mycroft didn't understand why so many people went nuts over his brother's skinny body he smiled. If that Stacy Coons was happy, his brother certainly was not.

"If there's nothing else for me to do, I'd like to check on DI Lestrade. Do you know where the ambulance took him?"

It took Mycroft one call to find out, and Stacy drove away.

oOo

One week later Sherlock and Greg Lestrade sat together in the living-room at Baker Street. The inspector still looked the worse for wear but he was healing nicely. He had been released from hospital two days ago but refused to go back to his flat. After a short discussion Greg had been allowed to stay in John's old room at Baker Street for a few days.

Mrs Hudson had been very pleased when he had shown up.

"Oh Sherlock, you finally got over John and found somebody else. But I never thought you," she looked Lestrade up and down, "would be his type."

"He's not my lover," Sherlock had snarled, leaving his landlady a bit surprised.

Lestrade had shaken his head. "Don't look at me. He's right."

The two men were now drinking tea while Lestrade was waiting for Stacy to show up. They wanted to go out to watch a movie and maybe have a drink later on.

Milton Banks had not been caught, and his daughter hadn't talked. It was still a bit of a mystery what had been in the Yard's vault that had been so very important to that man. The only item out of the ordinary had been a very new assault rifle that had been confiscated from a young man from Serbia only a week ago. The man had been caught with a small amount of drugs in an allegedly stolen car that belonged to a certain Milton Banks. Lestrade had made sure that the investigation team would look into that case very thoroughly.

Outside John had just arrived in front of 221B Baker Street when Stacy came walking along the street.

"Hey, good to see you." John kissed her cheek. "What are you up to?"

"Greg and I are going out for a movie and a drink." Stacy blushed slightly.

John smiled but stopped her before she could knock on the door.

"I hope you don't mind me asking but you seemed to be clearly... um... drawn to Sherlock. Greg is not a substitute, is he? I would hate to see him get hurt."

Stacy smiled. "One question, two answers. First, I have had the hots for Greg since the first time we met. Even when he was still married. He was of course way too decent to cheat on his wife. I have no intention of hurting him. Regarding Sherlock, I enjoy looking at a gorgeous body when I see one. But we both know that his heart is already taken, don't we?"

John was speechless but followed Stacy up the stairs. Right before he reached the flat he stopped though, pulled out his phone and dialed Sherlock's number. A tune rang out moments later, which left John with his mouth hanging open.

**Dear readers, thank you very much for reading and reviewing The DI is Cast – and thank you very much again, Jack63Kids for being my Beta!**

**The fact that dear Greg made it home at last, doesn't mean the story is finished. There's more to come in this series, and some of it will be a bit not good for our favourite characters. **

**Stay tuned. ;-)**


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